


Stay a Minute

by DoreyG



Category: The Ladykillers (1955)
Genre: M/M, Seductions, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:21:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harvey is reasonably attractive, Marcus is reasonably attracted. Such problems are easily fixed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay a Minute

“Stay a minute won’t you, Harvey?”

He sighs. Lays his violin (or whatever it’s fucking well called) back in the case and watches as the others file past him. Courtney casting an almost genial smile around the place, One-Round looking as amiably thick as ever, Harry absently shifting with all the chaotic energy of a rat in a trap.

Marcus shuts the door behind them with a short nod as he follows the others out. He hears the clatter of their footsteps down the stairs a moment later.

The bow is delicate in his hand, would be easy to snap. He absently fiddles with it instead. Props his feet up and listens to the shuffle of footsteps in the hall – the voice of the old woman, the awkward clump of fully grown men acting like schoolboys in front of a strict matron.

He muses, just for a moment, on how much he truly _hates_ it here.

Wonders, in the next, just what Marcus is planning to do.

“Would you and Mr Harvey like some tea, Mr. Marcus?” And then the old bat is questioning yet again. And all wonderings slip away as he calmly folds (clenches, for he’s never been that calm a man) his hands in his lap and _waits_.

“No, Mrs. Wilberforce, I am sure we’ll be fine.”

“Coffee?”

“No.”

“Lemonade, then-?”

“No, nothing,” he can half hear the smile in Marcus’ voice, almost thinks that he hears the scratch of a man going slowly mad in his tone, “as it happens we have quite important business to discuss, Mrs. Wilberforce, so would you mind not interrupting us for a few hours?”

“A few?”

“One or two. Best to err on the side of two.”

“Oh, of course Mr. Marcus!”

Of course Mr. Marcus.

Of _course_ Mr. Marcus. He drops his head against the back o the chair and allows a long sigh to huff out. For he knows, just _knows_ , that whatever business Marcus wants to discuss won’t go uninterrupted – the woman seems incapable of it, actually prevented by some meddling higher power that never wants to see him get a moments peace.

Honestly, he doesn’t deserve this. He’s only shot two people!

…Three, if you count the one in Paris.

There is some more useless flailing below, on a subject that he doesn’t care to pay attention to.

And then Marcus is suddenly climbing the stairs again. One by one, ever so slowly even though he has the muscle underneath to bound them in two seconds if he so wished (but he doesn’t. Marcus is the type to wait and watch and hide everything until even he isn’t sure of the truth. That’s a deduction that grows clearer by the day).

He only tilts his head up from the chair when the man enters the room again. Raises an eyebrow as Marcus nods, turns and _locks_ the door behind him.

“…Well?”

“Well,” Marcus chuckles genially, turns again with his hands tucked behind him – like he really could be a much respected professor in front of some breathlessly admiring hall.

…Yes, like he buys that for even a moment, “that was not an answer to my question.”

“That was not a question.”

“You want it in proper English or something?”

“If you would be so kind.”

“…I have many, and so get to pick what order I ask them in,” he huffs, props up his feet on his case as Marcus nods so very _smugly_ , “is Marcus your first name or your last name or what?”

“Is it even a name at all?” The man muses, a certain twinkle in his eyes (that’d be almost charming, if he wasn’t such an evasive bastard), “we must all keep some secrets close to our chests, Mr. Harvey. Next question.”

He chafes at being commanded so.

…He has no choice. And so resists the urge to go for his knife and simply tightens his hands in his lap, “why are we even here?”

“The _job_ , Mr. Harvey, I thought that’d be rather obvious. Next question.”

“But-“

“Next question.”

“I’ve killed men on three continents,” he says, sulkily and perhaps not entirely truthfully, “and I’ve never met anybody quite as annoying as _her_.”

“Show our host proper respect, Mr. Harvey.”

“Screw you.”

“Next question.”

…He growls, expecting as much of an answer as he got for the last two. Unfolds his hands and stubbornly crosses his legs as Marcus looks on with the faintest trace of _amusement_ , “why did you ask me to stay behind, then?”

“Ah,” that damned smirk, already obnoxious, is simply growing, “now _that_ is far more easily answered.”

The bastard, “go on, then.”

“I want you to sleep with me.”

The _utter_ -

…Huh.

“Sleep with you?” He asks very slowly. Slightly puzzledly, turning the words over in his mouth until they start to make some sort of sense (not sharp sense, by any means, but a vague sort that could almost be termed as acceptable).

“Yes: In my bed or against the wall or even with you straddling me in the chair if you feel quite flexible enough,” Marcus tilts his head, moves a few sauntering steps closer. The proximity untangles absolutely nothing, “come now, Harvey, I didn’t take you for a blushing virgin.”

“That is because I’m most decidedly not,” he says, still thinking in a quite determined way, “not even with men.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“It’s not every day that you get propositioned in such an open manner by your apparently fearsome employer.”

He watches Marcus consider that for a moment, continues considering himself – it’s a strange puzzle and all the pieces (with jagged edges, like they were cut by some amateur) have still failed to settle where they should’ve.

“…You don’t have to accept if you don’t want to,” the man eventually says, pausing his saunter – close but not intrusive, “I may be a thief but I’m not a monster. All I ask if that you don’t use this information for purposes of mockery or blackmail in front of the others.”

“I am cruel,” he offers absently, lifting his hands to under his chin, “but not that cruel.”

“…Well?”

“Give me time to think.”

Marcus quiets, almost obediently. Also gives him the time to study – white hair, glinting eyes, a sense of style, slightly crooked teeth but he’s gone to bed with far worse in his time and he knows that very well.

…Hm.

“Why me?” He has to ask, with hands still folded.

“Because I have tried the rest and found them all wanting,” Marcus chuckles, a low sound that raises the hairs on the back of his neck, genially spreads his hands (his thieves hands, the signs are there if you look closely enough) “…That is not true. I have slept with Courtney a few times but those were simply youthful fumbles and so barely worth remembering.”

“…You still continued to work with him, though?”

“We’ve worked together a few times, yes,” Marcus smiles again, exposing those crooked teeth – he half wonders what they’d be like biting down into his naked flesh, “but, then, I’ve worked with many people over the years.”

“And had one to warm your bed every job?” He watches as Marcus only _keeps_ smiling, spreads his hands ever wider “…You still haven’t answered my earlier question.”

“Which one? You have asked so many.”

“You _Know_ which one.”

“Perhaps…” Marcus pauses for a second, gives lie to his statement by instantly carrying on after that, “but the only answer I can give is bound to be an unsatisfying one.”

“Give it anyway.”

“So demanding,” Marcus laughs, and it is inevitably annoying “…It is simply a matter of attraction.”

He watches for a second.

Marcus watches back.

“…Attraction?”

“You are a generally attractive man, if you haven’t noticed,” Marcus shifts _closer_ like a man who thinks that he’s being convincing, rests his hands against the chair like a man who is probably right, “and I’ve always been specifically attracted to the bonuses of accents and competence.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“You know.”

“Indeed,” he waits for yet another second, notes the faint head from Marcus’ resting hands “…What’s in this for me?”

“An orgasm, if I may flatter myself,” Marcus waves casually, taking one hand away (and swiftly replacing it, an absent gesture that he feels strangely grateful for), “and you are already getting the money.”

He nods at that, already half wondering how an orgasm pulled from Marcus’ touch would feel.

“…Are you clean?”

“I do not proposition men without being so. You?”

“Of course,” he studies for one long moment, narrows his eyes and takes in every single added detail of personality – the light way of standing, the opportunistic glint in the eyes, the pale skin disappearing into collar and cuffs in such a classy way, “and this is no trick?”

“I’m not a man for tricks.”

He arches an eyebrow.

“…Those sort of tricks.”

“I suppose a man has to believe when such things are said,” he nods archly, straightening up in the chair and purposefully uncrossing his legs, “or else he’d never get into bed at all.”

“…Well?”

“That is not a question,” he chides in turn, rising to his feet.

“You understood it anyway.”

“I suppose I did,” and he smiles, the largest one that he’s ever willing to give (which is not that large, but he’s never been a man for going over the top), “your bed had better be big enough for two.”

…Marcus, damn him, looks simply amused at the come on. Not puzzled, not aroused – not anything but chuckling even as he’s backed towards the plain bedroom door, “it is.”

“You promise?”

“Would I lie?”

“All sensible man can,” he retorts, mildly pleased that Marcus kicks the door open behind him instead of simply stopping at the barrier and spreading himself out “…It’s a miracle that _you’re_ not a virgin.”

“Oh?”

“You’re not at all encouraging…”

“Why,” Marcus actually _purrs_ , something that should be entirely ridiculous with his general demeanour but that somehow… “You haven’t even heard me _moan_.”

And then, all of a sudden, he’s being tumbled down onto the bed – landing half under and half besides Marcus with their legs entwined and chests bumping.

He kisses the man more out of curiosity than anything else. A brief brush at first, lips dry, and then quickly going deeper – wetter as he takes one very good decision and props up on his elbow to get a better angle. Marcus kisses like he talks – sly, measured, like he’s holding something fascinating back and would appreciate everybody chasing for it.

Before long he has one hand working under stiff cloth and stubborn buttons. It’s the simplest thing in the world to find flesh.

The length of Marcus’ cock is hard in his palm, and produces a quite satisfactory gasp as he slowly twists his wrist. He pumps once, twice, thrice and feels Marcus fall out of the kiss into a helpless kind of open mouthed panting. It’s gratifying to get such noises from such a man, even if he’s having to grind down against the seam of his own trousers to keep himself sane.

He pumps a Forth time, licks into Marcus’ open mouth just to catch the pants bubbling up.

He rubs his thumb carefully over the head. Circles it there as he catches a proper moan – the type that sends his blood all flowing down to a specific place between his legs.

He trails his nails slowly, ever so slowly, down over Marcus’ cock until he can scratch at that wonderful place behind the balls and _grunt_ , almost desperately, at the building _whine_ that it produces…

And, with a noise that has never been heard before but that _might_ be the most arousing thing in the history of the world, Marcus _comes_ \- back arching off the bed and nails digging ever so frantically into the sheets.

He slowly stills his hands.

Marcus shudders for about a minute before slowly opening his eyes.

“…Well?” Is becoming a common question by now.

“That was very pleasant,” there’s a certain languid tint to Marcus’ smile that gives truth to his words, a certain blissful smugness implicit there as his fingernails ease from the sheets, “yes. I would tell you well done but I suspect that you already know.”

“Indeed,” he nods, for he _does_ already know and know it well “…Now.”

“Now?” Marcus’ eyes have fallen shut again.

“You promised me an orgasm.”

“Did I?”

“Prided yourself on it, as I recall.”

There’s a short pause. Marcus’ chest stills beneath him. He withdraws his hand as the man decides and cleans it against the inside of those utile (already open and stained) grey trousers.

“Fair enough,” and suddenly Marcus is rolling, pinning him to the bed with unsurprisingly hard hands and sliding nimbly down his body in the next moment (with that smirk present, as ever he’s starting to suspect), “I _do_ actually pride myself, after all.”


End file.
